Come Back
by ShineALight243
Summary: He couldn't go on anymore - the struggle he had faced every day is something that no one can understand. No one, not one person, could understand how John felt about the detective. And he was gone. It was over. And that thought brought a strange smile to the man's lips. "See you in hell, mate," He slurred almost bitterly, and John Watson raised the gun to his head.
1. Chapter 1

**Come Back**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello all you lovely people - this is the beginning of my fanfic 'Come Back'. It is based during the Hiatus period of Sherlock's apparent death and his comeback (hence the name). There will be some time-jumping, but it will be made clear :) one more thing - I don't think Fanfiction is letting me put spaces between the 'flashbacks' as I am trying to - sorry for the confusion, I am trying to fix it - if anyone is familiar with this problem could they send me a message on how to fix it? for the moment I've put empty brackets that look like this () to minimize confusion :)Thanks, and I hope you enjoy :)**

It lay there almost gently; smooth, angular, rather beautiful. Surrounded by shards of the empty gin bottle he'd hurled at the wall. That which usually lay in the desk drawer, carefully masked underneath his laptop or similar should it be being used, was placed on the kitchen table in front of him, so close and dangerous and_ inviting_. His hand quivered at the mere thought of picking it up, though he wasn't sure if the shaking was due to fear or strange excitement, or indeed his highly inebriated state. His eyesight was blurry enough that he missed with his first few grabs for it, and each one made him more anxious to get it right. He gasped softly when his fingers closed around it and he felt a lick of satisfaction inside him. It soon faded, however, and he gripped it tighter in his hand.

He had been beaten – he admitted it. The constant battle he had fought with himself every single day was too much for him anymore. He had felt this way for far too long and it was finally over. And that thought brought a strange smile to the man's lips.

"See you in hell, mate," He slurred almost bitterly, and John Watson raised the gun to his head.

()

Pain – it was all he could feel. As his head stopped spinning enough to figure out what was happening, all the pain suddenly concentrated down violently to his abdomen. He tried to look down, but felt he was unable to move, as if his entirety was made of lead. Giving up, he took in his surroundings, his eyes settling on the catheter in his wrist and realising with worrying déjà vu that he was in a hospital bed.

"John."

He started, darting his eyes over to the direction of the noise. He sighed, closing his eyes – why did it have to be him that found him every sodding time?

"Lestrade," John half-groaned as he tried to sit up again, forgetting about the intense pain in his middle and hastily lying still again, scrunching up his face as he waited for the horrid pulsing to pass. He knew what was coming, and he knew he wasn't going to enjoy it.

"John," Greg repeated, more gently this time, "Do you remember what happened?"

John cast back, more than a little reluctantly, trying to remember the events that had brought him here…

()

"_John!_"

John jumped horribly at the cry of his name, his grip on the gun unwavering however – military service still had some marking on him, he realised. He had no time to think – he wasn't being stopped this time. He was going. Whoever was banging on the door – and quite frankly, he didn't give a damn exactly who at that moment – was just going to have to make an unpleasant phone call to the police to explain there was nothing that could be done, that it was too late. With an almighty bang the door flew open, and John groaned loudly – it _was _the police.

"John! What the _fuck _are you doing?!" Greg Lestrade burst through the door of 221B Baker Street, charged straight up to John and punched him right across the face. Sent flying, John held on to the gun for all he had – he wasn't letting it go, or he would never get another chance again.

"Just let me go, Lestrade!" John cried to the detective inspector; "Can't you see I just want to…? Why can't you just let me go?!"

Greg rushed over to him, reaching down for the gun. John kicked out at him, clinging on for dear life, or rather, the will to end his own. "Fuck off!" John growled again.

"You've got to stop this!" Greg yelled, still trying to wrench the gun out of John's grip. "Nothing, not even this, will bring him back, John!"

John's heart crumpled impossibly more. The name hadn't even been mentioned, but the mere reminder of _him_ was enough to start a new heat of sick desire through John, and he fingers reached for the trigger of the gun and with a new surge of strength, he wrenched the gun from Greg's desperate clutches and towards his own head. Then there was a shout, John didn't know if from him or Lestrade, then a strong pair of hands on his arm knocked his aim off-target – just as he fired the gun.

There was a scream – he was pretty sure that was his own, and he realised with horrifying, sickening pain that he had indeed shot himself. He reached a hand to where the bullet must have been lodged and drew it back, covered in his own blood. He could feel other hands on the wound on his stomach and could hear someone talking urgently into a phone, though they seemed so distant, miles and miles and miles….

()

"…John."

Watson was brought out of his recollection, and was grateful for it. He sighed shakily and sank further into the bed, feeling utterly exhausted at the mere memory of it, though he wasn't sure why – it wasn't as if it was the first time he had experienced this sequence of events. He slowly opened his eyes to see Lestrade sitting beside him in the chair by the bed, the expression of concern almost heart-breaking, had he not been the cause for it.

"I'm sorry, Greg, "He said slowly, though he wasn't sure if he felt sorry at all – Lestrade knew what he had wanted, and had gotten in the way of that… No, John thought angrily, he couldn't be upset with Greg for doing such a thing, for saving his life. _Again_.

"You need some help, John," Greg said seriously. "This is the third time, now, and this one is way more serious than the previous. I have a moral obligation, as well as a professional one, to set you up with a grief therap – "

"Don't you dare send me to another God-damned therapist," John snapped, although he was far too tired and in too much pain to put up a proper fight.

I-I… I know it's got to be hard on you, all of this…" He paused, and looked John in the eye; "He wouldn't have wanted this, mate. Sher – "

"Don't," John grimaced. He couldn't hear the name, not now – probably not ever. "Please," he said weakly, desperately, "just… don't."

"You nearly killed yourself this time John," Lestrade continued, and John couldn't help but only hear the 'nearly'. He was so close…

"How did you even know what I was…?" John started, but the matter of suicide appeared to be one that was not to be talked about aloud.

Gregg sighed; "I called you six times, and no answer. You _always _answer your phone, John. It left little to the imagination, given your history."

"It's been a six months, John," Lestrade said slowly, as if trying to find a way to express it gently – "You… you need to move on. Or at least, find a way to get by. There will come a time when you will be ok again – I'm not going to bullshit you and tell you it'll be soon – but it _will _happen, mate." He stood up, casting a sympathetic look down at him – it made John's teeth itch. He didn't want pity.

"I have to go; I got called to work before you woke up." Gregg said, putting his coat on. "The doctor told me you'll be out in about a week. And you're going to see your therapist."

John would have called down the corridor that he most certainly was _not _going to his bloody therapist, but found he just didn't have the energy. Instead, he grappled clumsily for his morphine pump and waited for unconsciousness to claim him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Come Back**

John would never think of bringing flowers to Sherlock's grave. It was not something he would ever have gifted his friend with while he was alive, and he felt that if he did lay some on the detective's grave, he would hear his voice in his ear, saying with disgust, "_Flowers? John, flowers have no practical use. In fact, their pollen only upsets the validity of my petri dish experiments –"_

He couldn't do anything that brought Sherlock's voice to mind. He wasn't ready for that.

It was a cold, oddly quiet January day in the graveyard – John wasn't certain whether there _was _no noise, or if his thoughts had simply blocked it out. Fresh frost crunched underfoot as he walked up to the place he had avoided for so long, he almost worried it didn't exist. Not that that would be a worry, John thought desperately – if the grave were not there, Sherlock would still be here; as alive and rude as ever. Oh, how he longed for his sulks and tantrums that lasted for days on end; the swish of his blue silk dressing gown when he rolled grumpily and yet gracefully over on the sofa; the legato notes of his violin floating up to John's room in the mornings…

Alas, the grave remained; John walked for what seemed like an eternity, finally making out the gold words on the headstone:

_In Memory of Sherlock Holmes._

_What_ was in memory? John wondered. A marble headstone with his name on – that was all that had been left in Sherlock's memory? That was the reality of death; no one was remembered as they should have been, John thought miserably. He noticed that the grave was bare; no flowers – no one else could have known him well enough to know he didn't particularly like the things, so that couldn't be the reason – no pictures, no cards, nothing. Of all Sherlock's admirers – 'friends' was not a word John would really have opted for – not one of them had left anything else 'in Sherlock's memory'.

Why had Lestrade made him do this? It had not been his idea directly, of course, but it was him who had made him see his old therapist – John still cringed at the look she gave him when she walked in; no one person should be in and out of a therapist's office this much, he was sure of it, as he was also sure that she was thinking the same. It was 'part of the healing process', he'd been told, to directly face that which he didn't want to. Not that he could ever be healed of this, John thought grimly. Of that much he was certain.

John felt his heart ache more than the usual dull pain, and felt it spreading through his body. In a way all he wanted, all he _felt _he could do was to sink to his knees and weep. But a soldier never does. A soldier stands to attention, John told himself firmly; they stand and pay their respects to the fallen.

John could hear crunching behind him. Slowly, he turned, and saw a woman walking towards another grave, flowers in hand. It was then that he really took in all the other graves around him, rather than just a mass of blurry shapes around Sherlock's grave. The vast majority were bare also – they had been long forgotten. The present few who were remembered by current members of the living, such as Sherlock and whoever that woman was paying a visit to, would age and fade; in time there would be no one to remember them, or indeed to remember those who currently mourned the deceased. And here John was, standing in front of Sherlock's grave. There was nothing to make it special – nothing, apart from the name that would lose meaning to people in time, to tell it apart from any others. And right now, John could think of no one who would come to his grave when his time came, however soon or far away that might come. Lestrade maybe, he conceded, and perhaps Mrs Hudson if his death were particularly untimely – as it nearly had been a few weeks ago – but only out of a sense of moral obligation, he was sure. The only person whom he had been sure he could count on in anything in life was here beneath his feet - where he would always be.

Sherlock was gone, and he would only ever get further away. He wasn't coming back.

He found himself on his knees before he could stop himself – apparently his military service didn't run so deeply within him after all – and was trembling uncontrollably, his body being wracked with violent, yet mercifully silent sobs. It was as if it was hitting him in waves all over again; _He wasn't coming back. He wasn't coming back. He wasn't coming back._

"_John."_

John had to keep from crying out in pain – that's what he didn't want, what he was afraid of – Sherlock's voice entering his mind, like a sick game that, just for a moment, let him believe Sherlock was with him again, as if he had never left. The voice was so real, the tone of voice crystal clear in his memory, that it made him feel as though he could turn around and Sherlock would be right there, smiling smugly before beginning a rant about how Mrs Hudson had given away his most precious microscope and liver collection. All those stupid experiments –

"John."

John's heart stopped.

He wasn't there. John knew he wasn't there, because he was kneeling on his grave. Lestrade was right – he needed to go back to his therapist. He suddenly found he had feeling in his legs again, and sprang up onto them. He couldn't stay here. He had to leave, to go somewhere, anywhere, else. He turned quickly and –

...banged straight into soft, dark grey woollen overcoat.

The smug smile, and indeed the rant, probably would have followed – if John hadn't fallen backwards, smashed his head on Sherlock Holmes' grave stone – Sherlock Holmes' _fake_ grave stone – and been knocked unconscious.


End file.
